


Sing for Me Little Passerotto

by stark_nakedness



Series: Talk to the Plate [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Borsht, Caring Illya, F/M, Foriegn food dishes, Gaby has something up her sleeve, Gaby is Curios, Gaby is Smart, Hurt Napoleon, I'm Sorry, It just happened, Like, Napoleon Solo deflects with food, Napoleon Solo is a Great Cook, Pre-Pre-Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gabby Teller, Protective Gabby, Protective Illya, Protective Napoleon Solo, Purely my own ideas on Napoleon's background, Talk to the Plate, The Man From Uncle 2015 - Freeform, We aren't there yet, but if everything goes to plan, it just might, not sorry, slightly sad backstory for the guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8699236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stark_nakedness/pseuds/stark_nakedness
Summary: Neither one of them were strangers when it came to brushing against the hands of death, but it always rankled him a bit more than he would care to admit. Cooking had always been an escape for stressful days of his past, and it's a habit he doesn't see himself breaking anytime soon.     Aka - Solo tends to use food as a way to distract and deflect. He can't help it. Family tradition and all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rough Translations:  
> Passerotto - little Sparrow (Italian)  
> Capisci - "You know" (Italian)  
> Amore - Love (Italian)  
> Solnyshko - small sun/sweetie (Russian)  
> Loshad - horse (Russian)  
> Pridurok - moron (Russian)

_“Napoleon, look at me. Hey, hey, come here Passerotto. You know how your father is. He doesn't mean it. He's just tired and stressed….” and bitter and mean and reeking of another woman's perfume, is what goes unsaid._

_He hangs his head and curls his small fists at his side to control the pain and anger. His lip throbs in tune with his pulsing heartbeat but he ignores it in favor of wiping the silent tears from his cheeks. He shouldn't let his father's words get to him like this. He should know better. This wasn't the first time the man had returned drunk off his ass and spiteful. His mother's voice reaches his ears once more, and what she says makes him grit his teeth in renewed anger._

_“You know he loves you. He jus- ” he catches her hesitation, and his stomach lurches as if he were going to be sick. She ignores her verbal stumble and continues onward. “He isn't best at showing it. He's really trying, but it's hard for him. Capisci?” her accent grows more pronounced as her distress grows. It can be seen in the way she worries the bottom of her lip between her teeth, and wrings her hands together._

_"Come here amore.” A hand runs over his head and he can't help but lean into the touch. He knows that she loves him; would never intentionally hurt him. He also knows that in times like these she couldn't help but be fragile. It really wasn't her fault. She just didn't know how to fight back becuase no one had taught her._

_He ignores the blooming bruise across her cheek and buries his head in the crook of her neck where it's safe. He can feel her shake around him and he understands that she can't even come to believe her own lies anymore. It's becoming too much for her. His mother has never deserved this. He never deserved this. His angers burns so bright that he can feel it solidify into a sharp shard of glass within his heart. He clutches at his mother's blouse and holds her close._

_These are how such nights normally pan out. Soon she’ll pull back and listen to see if his father has passed out. After, she’ll tug him out the door and towards the neighbor. She's from the same village as his mother. Carolina knows better, but thankfully stays quiet._

_There they’ll make his mother’s favorite dish, and if he helps out, he'll be rewarded with all the sweets he can eat before his stomach aches. And if any of the other children question his injuries, all he has to do is slide over a batch of fresh cookies before drifting away. They're not old enough to know that there are some questions that shouldn't be asked._

_The hours will tick on by but his Mother still wont want to go back. The fear and anxiety still too fresh in her mind to even think about facing the man passed out in their living room. So she'll turn to him with a broken smile and request,_

_"Sing for us little Passerotto?"_

_It's said as a question, but Napoleon knows better._ _It's a tradition that goes on longer than he ever hoped it would._

* * *

     The hairs at the back of his neck abruptly stood on end, and Napoleon became all too aware that he no longer was alone. Continuing the familiar motion of dicing vegetables, Solo lifted his eyes to surreptitiously scan the kitchen. A surge of adrenaline instinctively rushed through him at the thought of a possible threat. In a matter of seconds he had noted an array of possible weapons within grabbing distance; one of which was already in his immediate possession. His muscles coiled tight at the thought of necessary defensive measures, and his mind immediately questioned the safety of the others. ( _Of course they were safe. Illya was a fighting machine for god's sake_ ) Within seconds Napoleon was rightly prepared for fight or flight. His teeth ground together in fleeting anger as his body began to throb in exhaustion. His injuries would hinder his reaction time, but that wouldn't stop him from eliminating as much of the threat as possible, so the others could break free.

     Just as quickly had his apprehension appeared, it soon dissolved. The knot of tension slowly bled out from his shoulders at the sight of Gaby in place of a possible Thrush agent. She was still robed in her plaid nightwear with hair in slight disarray; a picture of innocence and much more acceptable company. He allowed himself a fleeting grin at the thought.

     Napoleon would never make the mistake of underestimating her potential as a threat. However, he knew that he was safe from injuries via makeshift stun guns, considering her temperament was still softened by sleep. Honestly he had no real reason to be on edge. It was silly really. He knew Illya would never allow for an intruder of any sort to infiltrate the safe house, and even if they did, he wouldn't back down without a fight. Illya had a nasty tendency of killing those that tried to kill them.

     Let it be said that old habits died hard. Napoleon was always more high strung after a mission involving estranged kidnappings and psychological torture. Too many memories. Too many ghosts that were better left alone. Too close to home for his taste. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head as his fingers quickly shifted back into a more casual grip about the cutting knife.

     Gaby was watching him with an intent gaze and had yet to realize that her presence had been acknowledged. He refrained from speaking up, instead opting for the chance to divulge in some observation of his own. He briefly grimaced at the sight of bandages crawling over the curve of her right cheek. That feeling of immediate danger returned, and Solo had to resist the urge to scour the building’s perimeter once more. ( _Funny how such a reaction had become second nature to him so quickly._ )

     Thankfully the mission had been a success, and the team had returned beaten and bruised but moreover - alive. Neither one of them were strangers to the prospect of torture and death. However, Napoleon very well knew that one could never truly shake the demons of such close encounters, and this mission proved to be a bit more overbearing than most. Waverly had given orders to lie low while things on the outside had a chance to cool down.

     Figures they’d barely get their beaks wet working for U.N.C.L.E. before getting thrown in the midst of one of their more delicate issues. It was nothing if frustrating for Solo. He was a thief not a goddamn errand boy, and the CIA had yet to temper him from his wanderlust. Orders had left them all wrung out and isolated, which did not bode well with a playful mechanic and social thief. Napoleon hardly slept the night before, and it was only a matter of time before he started rummaging through the cupboards in search of a distraction.

     Cooking had always been a love of his - a familiar notion associated with safety and love - and pretty soon he found himself preparing one of Illya’s favorite meals; Borscht. It was a welcome distraction and he figured it would help relax the tense Russian as well. He also knew that Gaby would pretend to be annoyed; harping on about how Solo was playing favorites. She never tried too hard to keep up the façade though. She was always secretly pleased to see her bear-of-a-boyfriend at ease. 

     Which left Napoleon a bit curious as to why Gaby remained quiet and contemplative in the eye of his cooking routine. She typically loved to banter over his skills as a cook. Her eyes were riveted on the flex of his fingers as he went through the motions of chopping a second potato. He considered the idea of asking her what the trouble was. He could never stand to see her troubled; a weakness he knew should have bothered him yet stubbornly ignored.

     Before he could pause and voice his inquiry, Illya shuffled into the kitchen. Napoleon diverted his attention to the newest addition and cocked his head to the side in acknowledgment. Unlike Gaby he was dressed in socially acceptable attire. However, "socially acceptable" _may_ have been too strong a term with the way his shirt was beginning to wear thin in certain places.

     “Morning Peril, sleep well I take it?” Glacier blues softened by the haze of post-sleep swung over to Napoleon’s face. He let out a small grunt of acknowledgement as his lips twitched in a ghost of a smile.

     “As a matter of fact, yes. That is, until my pillow left me to suffer. Very rude.” Kuryakin stopped behind Gaby and leaned forward to wrap his arms about her shoulders. She blinked in realization before promptly jerking forward in surprise. Napoleon held back a laugh at her sharp yelp of protest as Illya proceeded to run cold fingers over her upper arms in an ill attempt at warming them up.

     “What have I told you about doing that Illya. You’re hands are always so damn chilly,” she huffed in annoyance, but the glint in her eye suggested otherwise.

     “I apologize Solnyshko, but you are so very warm,” he proceeded to nuzzle against her uninjured cheek while he watched Napoleon toss the beets into the pot out of the corner of his eye. As if truly noticing Napoleon for the first time, Illya slowly rose to his full height and took a small whiff of the air around him.

     “Is that Borscht?” he asked with a pleased look. Napoleon quirked the side of his mouth in semblance of a smile and looked at him imploringly. Peril rose a single brow in response. Let it be said that Illya could be a prude when it came to cooking as well as dressing attire. Finally dropping the knife, Napoleon lifted a single hand and gestured to the red soup.

     “I even made it with beef this time around. Honestly Illya, I'd expect I could be trusted to know what I'm doing by now.”

     “Yes, but Borscht is traditionally provided for lunch. I believe that we are expected to be served breakfast, no?” Napoleon’s brow furrowed in amusement as he gave a little shake of his head. Placing his hands along the marble counter he allowed himself to lean forward and jut his chin toward the clock in the dining area.

     “Correct me if I'm wrong - which I'm not - but I'd suspect that mid-afternoon would qualify as more of a lunch setting than breakfast,” Napoleon gives Illya a grin as the Russian frowns and rises to a full stand. Confusion flickers across his face before realization sets.

     “What have I told you about sedatives Napoleon? For such a talented thief you manage to forget things too easily.” Kuryakin nostrils flared in annoyance as he glanced about the kitchen in sudden wariness. Napoleon couldn't help but grimace in sympathy, but the notion fled as fast as it arrived. He knew of the man's reservations towards any particular narcotic despite the moments they truly were required. The medication had a tendency to muddle Illya's senses and for him that was worse than any possible pain.

     Past experience had taught him well. Illya had passed out more than once in an effort to keep his witts about him. Napoleon could very well be unapologetic and a nuisance, but he'd never go against Peril’s wishes without his consent. How could he even fathom dosing the man like a beast when there was no cause for it. Apparently trust issues were still a thing between them.

     “So quick to judge the man who tended to your wounds,” he gave a vague wave towards Illya’s ribs and arm, “and who was nice enough to drag your snoring ass to bed.” The Russian’s features went through a series of emotions bordering along confusion, embarrassment, and grudging acknowledgment. He cleared his throat as Gaby threw him an exasperated glare. She too had been at the end of Illya’s trust issues, until recently that is. Two months to be exact.

     “And what of your injuries Cowboy?” Peril quirked a brow at the obvious array of bandages along Napoleon's jaw. The rest were thankfully hidden from view beneath the weight of his shirt and waist of his slacks. Illya would be outraged to learn Solo had downplayed his injuries once again. Good thing Napoleon would never let him find out. 

     “Dexterity is a beautiful thing Peril,” Solo answered simply as he turned away quickly. A small clearing of Gaby’s throat broke through the sudden awkward silence. Napoleon's shoulders tensed minutely at the prospect of her trying to continue along that line of conversation. She opened her mouth with a curious tilt of her head, and he turned away to hide the frustration alight within his eyes. He needed to think quick if he wanted a distration. 

     “So you're saying you tucked Illya into bed? How domestic of you.” And Napoleon could kiss her on the mouth for the branch of distraction she offered. Of course he would never act on such an impulse. He respected Illya enough to keep himself in check around the feisty mechanic. This time he allowed a small chuckle, if only to grate on Peril's nerves some more.

     “Nothing domestic about leaving a man in the restroom and coming back to find him slumped along the wall after passing out. His snoring was atrocious though. I don't know how you deal with it.” Gaby and he shared an amused glance.

     “She doesn’t have to. You lie. I don't snore and I don't pass out. Never have, it is against KGB training.” Illya cuts two fingers through the air with a sharp shake of his head. Napoleon knows that denial is always the first step. After all he should be very familiar with the routine by now.

     “I beg to differ Peril. Believe me, I was as astonished as you, but the effort of carrying you up the stairs remains a reminder even now,” subconsciously he allowed his fingers to flutter over his aching ribs. In a flash Illya was by his side and Solo had to take a small step back before the other could do something drastic - like peel the tails of his shirt out of his waistband to examine his wounds.

     “Woah there Peril. I'm fine. Just some bruises and broken bones. Nothing I haven't handled before.” So much for keeping his injuries on the down low.

     “First off, I am no loshad. So don't ‘woah’ me. Second, you were injured and failed to inform us of those injuries. Unacceptable. Third, I find my failure to remain conscious very suspicious.” and ouch did that sting. Napoleon took another step back and moved closer to the pot on the oven in silence. He really didn't care to reply at the moment.

     “ _Illya_ ,” the soft voice of Gaby floated over the harsh breaths of the Russian at his back. He had almost forgotten she was still in the room. Still, Illya was not one to give up easily. It was what made him a great agent after all. 

     "Broken bones _are_ serious. You should allow examination. Internal bleeding is not something I'm willing to risk in light of your stubborness. _Pridurok_." He bit out with a twitch of his jaw. Napoleon narrowed his eyes in annoyance. 

     "That's rich coming from you. Careful Illya, I might get the wrong idea and start thinking you care." A single sharp intake of breath, and Solo knew he had executed a perfect hit. 

     " _Napoleon._ " Perfect, two for the price of one. Now Gaby was feeling insulted. He threw her an apologetic glance in hopes to quell some of her anger. Instead of irritation though, he found confusion and curiosity. Illya took another step forward and Solo couldn't help but step away. The movement made Peril's eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

     Napoleon ground his teeth together and picked up the laddle lying on the counter. Pouring a bowl of Borscht, he thrust it toward the fellow agent. 

     "Does this taste like it was made by a man suffering from internal hemorrhaging?" He quirked a brow in challenge. If there was one thing he knew about Kuryakin, it was impossible for the man to turn down a dare.

     Illya's nostrils flared as the steam rose to his face. Without taking his eyes off Napoleon, he slowly took the bowl in his hands. It was somewhat unnerving to have the Russian stare him down in the midst of taste testing. Yet, Solo knew he couldn't afford to back down in this regard. Not if he wanted to get the man off his back and stop asking questions that he shouldn't be.

     He observed as Kuryakin's face shifted through an array of emotions after his first sip. Suspicion. Irritation. Suprise. Delight. Napoleon threw him a bright grin. 

     Illya's fingers tightened around the bowl before he sighed through his nose. A single pause as both men warily watched the other, and then Illya was moving away to avoid crowding him. The tension coiled between his shoulders loosened, and he turned back to the pot. He suddenly felt tired, and he couldn't deny that the wounds were starting to bother him now. He needed to escape. Fresh air would do him good. But first, he couldn't keep a lady waiting. 

     He turned to Gaby with a smirk and set a bowl down for her. She took it gratefully and gave him a wan smile in thanks; intrigue shimmering in her eyes.  He nodded in assent before switching the stove off and wiping his hands with a towl. 

     She glanced at Illya, but he was too preoccupued watching Solo with an intense stare, to notice her. Gaby's eyes flicked from Illya to Solo and a frown began to form. Something was wrong. Napoleon never liked to seem weak in their eyes, true. Neither one of them did. Illya being the worst of the three. But this? This was unusual even for him. Typically Solo would allow a check over. Make a game of it and teasingly inquire if they were finally showing interest in playing "Doctor". Typical Solo behavoir. 

     She turned back to her soup, absently acknowledging the tune Solo began to hum as he bid them farewell. The wince of pain at his exit not escaping her notice. She locked eyes with Illya and she knew that he was concerned in his own way. At that moment she vowed that she would figure this out, and then fix it. After all, this morning's events were not a tradition she was willing to keep. 


End file.
